"Arthur, is that manuscript ready yet?"

The blond didn't answer right away, too focused to have realized he was being addressed.

"Arthur."

"Hm?" His answering hum was barely audible, accompanied by the smallest turn of his head.

"Are you about finished with that?"

"I'm on the last page."

"Turn it in before you go."

"Got it." Arthur didn't take his eyes off the paper in his hand as he spoke, scanning the black lines of text. A red pen flicked back and forth between two of the fingers of his right hand, little more than a blur of movement. It was an interesting read, but the writer clearly needed more training with grammar and spelling. Still, the plot and characters seemed promising.

The blond paused, pen catching between his fingers, and marked down a spelling error, as well as a misplaced comma.

His fingers resumed their twiddling, and he looked over the last few lines.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

His lips quirked up musingly and he laid the paper on his desk so he could add his final comments in the blank space at the bottom of the last page. This manuscript might actually have a chance at making it, even with the brutal screening processes of the house.

Satisfied with his work, Arthur dropped his pen into the appropriate cup and added the page he'd just finished to the pile he'd been reading through for the last few days. He picked up the papers, boxing the edges so they all sat nicely together, and secured them in place with two rubber bands, one the long way, one the short way, to ensure it would stay neat until the next level of editors had a chance to look it over. Once he was finished with that, he tidied up the rest of his desk, packed his bag, put on his coat, and left his cubicle, manuscript in hand.

The bound manuscript was left in the tray secured to the wall next to his supervisor's office, where they would be found in the morning and taken inside. Unless there was a problem, it was the last Arthur would see of that story. It would either survive the editing process and be published into a book, or it would be rejected and discarded. Arthur, in the meantime, would continue to look through the other submissions that made it to his level of editing.

Since he was one of the last people to leave, there was no one to slow him down as the blond went to the elevator, rode it down to the lobby, and left the building. The employee parking lot was nearly empty, only a few stalls still occupied by those who had to catch up on their work before they could leave for the night. Arthur was never the first one out the door—he didn't believe in rushing his work—but he was certainly never the last, and that, at least, gave him a certain amount of satisfaction.

It was a short walk down to the train station, Arthur's thoughts occupied by the thought of a bath and a cup of tea as he went through the motions of going home. For a moment, he imagined watching a movie with Alfred, only to remember that the American was still more interested in his website than he was in Arthur. It was far more likely that they would spend tonight blogging, instead.

The thought made Arthur sigh, his mood dropping significantly. He didn't like coming home from a day at work to an inattentive boyfriend. If his blog scheme didn't start to work soon, he was going to get depressed.

Great. This idea is working out splendidly.

Well, maybe he'd find something worthwhile to do. He could always post a few more pictures to his blog, take a nice long bath, read, have a cup of tea and a few biscuits. That would make a nice enough evening, even if Alfred wasn't involved, and Arthur could always invite him. Maybe he'd actually accept, and they'd spend the evening together.

The hope for that stayed with him all the way home, right up to the moment he unlocked the door and walked into the apartment. Silence and dim rooms greeted him. Alfred wasn't home yet.

With a sigh, Arthur dropped his bag on the floor just inside the door and took the mailbox key from its place on the wall above the coat hooks. There was considerably less spring in his step as he went back down to the main floor of the apartment building and towards a wall consisting almost entirely of mailboxes. One of them, closer to the left and towards the top, was labelled with a small white sticker that read "Jones/Kirkland." Absently, Arthur inserted the key and twisted it, opening the mailbox to his and Alfred's apartment.

Two plastic-wrapped packages tilted forward and fell out, landing at the green-eyed blond's feet and startling him into actually paying attention to what he was doing. Curious now, the Briton picked up the fallen packages and examined the labels—they were both addressed to him, but the return addresses weren't in English. It was a few seconds before he realized what they probably were.

Excitement coursed through him and the packages were all but clutched to his chest as Arthur barely glanced long enough to make sure the mailbox was empty before practically running back up the stairs. Suddenly, it didn't seem so bad that he had the apartment to himself.

The door slammed shut behind him when Arthur reentered the apartment and hurried to the bedroom, forgetting entirely about his bag still abandoned in the front hall He ripped into the packages, tossing bits of plastic to the floor without a thought, until one then two empty bags fell to the floor, leaving their brightly colored contents draped across the bed. Red lace, black silk, matching ribbons. It was hardly enough fabric to cover anything, and that was exactly what Arthur had been hoping for.

These were sure to get Alfred's attention. He just had to make it perfect.